Hogan's Heroes: A Connecticut Yankee in the RAF
by Syl
Summary: The summer of 1940. Europe has fallen to Hitler's advancing forces, and America has not yet entered the war. All that stands between Nazi world domination and freedom is the tiny island country of Great Britain.
1. Part 1

**Summary: The summer of 1940. Europe has fallen to Hitler's advancing forces, and America has not yet entered the war. All that stands between Nazi world domination and freedom is the tiny island country of Great Britain. **

**Acknowledgement: I used several historical sources, but the two that were the most useful are: **

_The Battle of Britain Campaign Diary, 1940-2000. 14 Apr. 2002. DeltaWeb International Ltd. 2000. http://www.raf.mod.uk/bob1940/bobhome.html_

Clayton, Tim and Phil Craig. _Finest Hour, the Battle of Britain. New York: Touchstone Books, 1999. _

**Author Notes: 1. The idea for the story was inspired by a brief reference that Hogan was once assigned to the RAF (Episode #67, "Funny Thing Happened on the Way to London.") 2. For dramatic purposes, some of the actual historical events have been altered. 3. To the best of my knowledge there was never a No. 11 Fighter Squadron, nor a Hillingdon Air Field near Uxbridge.**

**Disclaimer:**** Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!**

Copyright September 2002 

****

A Connecticut Yankee in the RAF     

By Syl Francis

****

_"This was their finest hour." _

(Winston Churchill, 18 Jun. 1940)

****

Wednesday MAY 29 1940//1430hrs local 

**Over the Bergues-Dunkirk Road**

**Approx. 25km SE from Dunkirk, France**

****

He hated sitting back while someone else did the flying...**_And__ the fighting, he grumbled. Since Churchill initiated Operation Dynamo--the evacuation from the European mainland of all British forces--the American officer had flown along on several combat missions as a neutral observer and reluctant rear seat pilot. _**

_And hating every minute of it!_

From his vantage point behind the pilot and copilot, he watched the French-Belgium countryside scroll past them. Here and there he saw evidence of the Luftwaffe's Blitzkrieg brand of warfare--entire villages razed to the ground, roads clogged with refugees and entire armies fleeing the onslaught. 

He shook his head in disgust at Germany, a supposedly civilized nation, for once again bringing the world to the brink of war. What happened next went by so fast that later he was never quite able to recall the exact details... 

The cockpit suddenly exploded with the sounds of shattering glass and bloodcurdling screams. Two Messerschmitt Me-109s ripped past them, their .30mm cannons blazing. Automatically, he threw his arms up to protect himself from flying glass and metal, but less than a heartbeat later, realized that they were spiraling out of control.

Instantly, the American observer tore off his restraints and rushed to the pilot's side. The young RAF Flight Lieutenant--code name, Wolf Leader--was slumped over. The observer quickly checked him for any life-signs. No pulse. A groan from the right hand seat, told him that the copilot was still alive, but a hasty glance said not for long.

He did not have time to worry about that now. The Me-109s were banking for a return run. _And we're gonna **pancake in just about another minute! Reaching over the pilot's body, he grabbed the controls, and giving a short prayer started pulling back with all the strength he could muster. **_

He glanced at the altimeter--10,000 ft...9,500 ft...9,000 ft.

"Come on, doll...come on..." he coaxed.

Slowly, reluctantly the Blenheim light bomber began to_ respond to his insistent commands, until finally, he pulled it out of its death dive. He glanced at the altimeter--1500 ft. __Plenty room to spare! He quipped, breathing in a sigh of relief._

_No time to celebrate...Those 109s are probably on a return vector already_. By now, the much faster planes would have him lined up in their sights. One-handed, he hurriedly pulled the dead pilot out of the command seat and slid in. The American tried not to think about the young pilot's wife and new baby girl. Or how happy he'd seemed when he'd proudly shown off their pictures to everyone lounging in the squadron's ready-room. The other pilots' good-natured ribbing still echoed in his ears.

The American shook off the thoughts. Now wasn't the time. He had to concentrate on the job at hand. Running a quick check of the instruments, he saw to his relief that most were fully functional. 

_Thank goodness for small favors._

"Air Gunner to Pilot!" a frantic voice yelled over his headset. "Bandits on our tail!"

"How **_close are they?" he asked, preparing for evasive action. Without warning, the plane jerked as a burst of .30mm rounds struck its starboard wing._**

"That **_close enough for you?" The air gunner punctuated his question with a long salvo from his own twin machineguns._**

"Plenty close...!" Jaw clenched, the 'neutral' observer hit the flaps, effectively slamming on the 'brakes' in midair. The next instant, the Me-109s overshot them. At the unexpected change in airspeed, the bomber's controls became sluggish, fighting his commands. 

_Hey, who's in charge here?!** Okay, doll****...There hasn't been a plane built that can get the better of me.**_

Wrestling with the controls, he zeroed his aiming circle on an imaginary point, leading the fighters--_Hold it...hold it..."**Now!"--and squeezed the trigger. Instantly, a deadly fusillade of tracer rounds spewed forth from the port wing machinegun. Seconds later, a trail of black, oily smoke erupted from one of the Me-109s. **_

"Got 'im, Wolf Leader!" the air gunner shouted. As proof, the enemy fighter listed to starboard and began plummeting to earth below.

"That's not gonna work a second time, Mac--! Get ready!"

"Who **_is_** this?" the air gunner suddenly demanded. Apparently, he had finally figured out that the voice over the intercom was not that of his flight leader. "What the devil's going on up there? What's happened to Wolf Leader?"

"There isn't **_time for that--! Heads up! Bandit at two o'clock!" _**

In the back of his mind, the American calmly analyzed the situation. The only chance they had was to present the smallest possible target. The solution? He banked the Blenheim into a head-on collision course with the oncoming fighter. Coolly staring down his sights, he rested his finger on the trigger and waited. The enemy fighter made no attempt to break away.

"So you want to play a little game of chicken, eh, Fritz? Okay...let's see who blinks first!"

As the distance between them closed, he felt a slow trickle of perspiration wend its way down his temple to his cheek to the tip of his chin. "Come on...come on..." he muttered. At the last possible instant, the German fighter broke right, avoiding a collision. 

The American fired a short burst at the enemy fighter's suddenly exposed underbelly. A clean miss! Still, the other guy had blinked. 

"Chicken...! Bwakwakwak..." 

Grinning, he changed heading, attempting to follow the Me-109. However, before the 'neutral' observer could do anything further, the enemy plane burst into flames!

"**_What the--?" He craned his neck, scanning the sky in a 180-degree radius. That was when he spotted them, coming out of the sun--Spitfires!_**

"This is Red Fox Leader! Thought you could use a hand, mate!"

"You can say that again, Mac! We have a medical emergency on board. The pilot's dead and the second pilot's suffered massive injuries. I need fighter escort back to the nearest air field."

"The pilot **_and second pilot injured? Then who the bloody hell are _****_you, mate?"_**

"Maj. Robert E. Hogan, US Army Air Corps--neutral observer."

"...!" After a second of stunned silence, Red Fox Leader cheerfully replied, "If this is how you Yanks fight when you're 'neutrals,' I can't wait to see what happens when you finally **_do enter the war!"_**

"You'n me both, Mac..." Hogan muttered. "You'n me both.

****

End of Part 1


	2. Part 2

**Summary: Hogan requests a transfer to the British Royal Air Force. **

**Author Note: Thanks to everyone who has commented on the story so far. I really appreciate your kind comments.**

**Disclaimer:**** Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!**

Copyright September 2002 

****

**Friday AUG 16 1940//0600hrs local**

**Bentley Priory, RAF Fighter Command HQs**

**Uxbridge, England **

****

A double-decker bus full of uniformed men and women rolled up the long, stately drive leading towards Bentley Priory, an historic, elegant dwelling that had been converted into RAF Fighter Command HQs. A queue largely comprised of RAF personnel just going off duty was already waiting to be shuttled back into London.

Hogan rode on the top deck of the bus, the sole American officer amongst the RAF uniforms. As the bus came to a stop, he folded his _London Times and stood. Uniformed commuters flowed with him towards the exit, most waited patiently for their turn to climb down to the lower level, but a few jostled rudely past him without a glance. _

However, Hogan's mind was on other things this morning. The news from the home front appeared promising for a change. The US had just signed a pact for the mutual defense of the North American continent with Canada. Roosevelt used this as a ploy to bypass the _Neutrality Acts and agreed to start sending US Navy destroyers to Great Britain._

_About time--! __When is Washington gonna wise up and enter this thing? Can't they see that if England falls, we'll be next?_

Exiting the bus, he was so preoccupied with planning just how he would approach Gen. Duncan this time that he did not see the young woman until it was too late. He walked right into her, accidentally pushing her down onto the pavement, and spilling the contents of her briefcase.

"Now see what you've done, Yank!" The accusatory tone spelled no love for Americans. He quickly crouched next to her and attempted to help her gather her papers.

"I beg your pardon," Hogan murmured, diving for a particular sheet before it flew off. So intent was he on what he was doing, that he fell on top of her, sending them both sprawling. Chagrinned, he struggled to regain his feet, while attempting to ignore the laughter from passersby. 

His campaign hat pushed slightly askew, Hogan blew a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. Seeing the rather ignominious heap in which she had fallen, he stood hurriedly and reached down to help her. She wore the uniform of an officer in the British Women's Auxiliary Air Force. Checking her sleeve insignia, Hogan mentally went through the WAAF rank structure. 

_Section Officer, he thought, the female equivalent to an RAF Flying Officer, which in turn was the equivalent of a US Army First Lieutenant. Her hat was shoved low over her eyes, giving her an endearingly comical look. Always on the lookout for a pretty girl, Hogan admired how her short-cropped dark hair framed a lovely heart-shaped face. He smiled at the small, delicate nose that ended just above a full, sensuous mouth. _

However, as she took his hand and looked up into his eyes, Hogan was caught off-guard by her icy-blue glare. _Brrrr...! If looks could kill...!_

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss, um, I mean, Section Officer, um--" 

"My report!" she cried. "I spent hours getting it ready! We're supposed to brief the Air-Vice Marshal at 0800 hours! But now, look at it. It's ruined!" She held out the trampled and torn stack of papers, and waved them under his nose. 

"Look, let me help--" he began, reaching for the papers.

"No!" she said sharply, jerking them back. "I bloody well think you've already helped more than enough. Now please, just stay away from me!" 

As she spoke, the WAAF officer angrily stuffed the papers back in her briefcase. Amused, Hogan threw his hands up in mock surrender and stepped back. With one final toss of her now disheveled head, she turned and stomped off in an angry huff. Grinning, Hogan let her go, pleasantly surprised to discover that she was heading in the same direction as he. A uniformed crowd had gathered to watch their impromptu altercation.

"Tallyho, Yank!"

"That's setting Anglo-American relations back a bit, mate!" 

"A bit 'brassed off' with you, eh, Yank?" 

Grinning, Hogan tipped his campaign hat far back in his head and shrugged expansively.

"She's mad about me," he said with a knowing wink. The crowd broke into mild laughter and slowly dispersed, the show over. Only when she had disappeared into the building did he follow.

****

**Friday AUG 16 1940//0630hrs local**

**US Military Liaison Offices, **

**Bentley Priory, RAF Fighter Command HQs **

**Uxbridge, England**

****

Hogan spent the greater part of the morning arguing with his immediate superior about his request for a transfer. For the third time since just after the evacuation of Dunkirk, Gen. Duncan turned down his request for transfer to the RAF.

"Major, you know I can't spare you," Duncan said dismissively. "The work you're doing here as military liaison to the Air Ministry is vital to US interests--!"

"--Vital to US interests!" Hogan repeated sarcastically. "So far all we've done is sit back and watch someone else fight our war for us--"

"Major, this isn't '**_our' war, as you put it," Duncan cut in. "Pres. Roosevelt has made our neutrality in this conflict abundantly clear. We'll offer whatever assistance we can--"_**

"Our neutrality--!?" Hogan retorted, holding up the _London Times. "Yeah, we're neutral all right! We're so neutral, we've agreed to start sending American destroyers here. This way, the Brits can continue doing all the fighting, while we cower on the other side of the Atlantic!" Hogan slapped the rolled newspaper against his leg in a show of contempt. _

"Well, thanks, but no thanks!" he continued. "I've stood back long enough and watched others fly off on combat missions, while **_I cowered--safe and sound--with the women and children in some cushy bomb shelter." _**

"I don't think that flying as a neutral observer during combat runs exactly qualifies as '**_cowering,' Major," Duncan countered quietly. "And I seem to recall you taking the controls of that Blenheim bomber when both the pilot and co-pilot were shot." But Hogan shook his head._**

"That's just the point, sir! I'm a pilot. I should be flying alongside these men, not sitting back and watching from the sidelines. The RAF needs all the qualified pilots they can get their hands on." 

Hogan walked towards the wall and studied a yellowed photo of a boyish pilot, striking a dashing pose next to a World War I bi-plane, the French-made SPAD scout. Painted on the nose were six German flags, one for each enemy killed. The young ace, Hogan knew, was 2Lt. Cameron Duncan--now Major General Duncan--a member of the famed WWI American Squadron, the Lafayette Esquadrille. 

Hogan did not bother to point out what he saw as an apparent hypocrisy coming from Duncan, a highly decorated combat pilot who had volunteered to fight with the French two years before America entered WWI, and who was now denying him the opportunity to do the same with the British. However, the irony of the situation was not lost on either man.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't stand back anymore and do nothing while others take the risks. If you won't approve my transfer, then I'll be forced to resign--"

"Don't be ridiculous, Robert!" Duncan cut in. "I've known you for a long time. You're a professional officer--not one of these 90-day boy wonders that the Army schools are beginning to crank out--and you know your duty."

"I know my duty, sir. And it isn't to sit back and watch others die while I do nothing to help!"

The two men glared at each other for a long time.

"Gen. Duncan...I'm an experienced pilot. I've spent these past few months observing and analyzing the RAF's fighter tactics. I'm fully qualified on both the Spitfire and the Hurricane--"

"And just about anything else with wings...Yes, I know that, Major. I've heard this argument before." Duncan took out a cigarette and lit it. Taking a long drag he steadily held Hogan's eyes and continued as if uninterrupted. "What you always fail to mention is that your reports to Washington on the RAF's tactics have been instrumental in the current Army-wide revision of our own air operations." Duncan paused, shaking his head. "Sorry, Major, but as I've said before, the work you're doing here is too critical for me to spare you." 

A muscle jumped along Hogan's jaw line, and his normally mild, dark eyes flared momentarily. "Sir, you know from experience that it isn't enough to have skilled pilots. When the US finally enters the war--" He held up his hand to forestall argument. "--and we **_both know that's coming in the near future--" Duncan glared at him but had the grace to nod in agreement. "--Then we're going to need skilled _****_combat pilots to train the new kids."_**

The two officers stared at each other for a long time without speaking. Finally, Duncan dropped his gaze and looked away. He walked over to the same photograph that Hogan had studied earlier, and stood in front of it for a few minutes, smoking quietly. His thoughts traveled back to a conversation with his own superior, Lt. Gen. Ryder, just two weeks ago. Unknown to Hogan, Duncan had requested virtually the same thing from Ryder--a transfer to the RAF. 

Unsurprisingly, his request had also been denied. _And now I'm doing the same to Hogan._

"Sir, will you grant me the transfer?" Hogan asked again. 

Sighing, Duncan turned and saw the same intense look in Hogan's face that he knew had been in his when he had asked Ryder for a transfer. But Hogan's situation was not the same as Duncan's. The US Army was not in the business of transferring its generals to a foreign power's armed forces, even if that nation were Great Britain. What was more, Duncan knew that his days as a combat pilot were over. From here on, the only flying he would do would be from behind a desk. 

But it was different for Hogan. The younger man was at his peak as a trained Army aviator. And besides...he was right.

The service would need experienced combat pilots to train the new crop of kids to fly into hell and back as soon as the US entered the war. _And who better than a man like Hogan? Duncan thought of the work they were doing here as neutral observers and military liaisons. It was important, but--? He shook his head. _

_When the balloon goes up, we're not going to need more desk officers who can write reports--the Lord knows we've got enough of those! We're going to need proven leaders. Studying the younger officer, Duncan knew what Hogan's look of grim determination meant. __Whatever I decide, I'll lose him either way. _

Duncan liked and admired Hogan. While working on the Army Staff, he had been deeply impressed by then Capt. Hogan's technical and tactical expertise, as well as his easy-going leadership style, which made him extremely well liked among the junior officers and enlisted men. When Duncan had received his initial orders to England as part of the US Army Air Corps' liaison mission to the RAF, he had immediately requested that Hogan be assigned to his staff.

_Hogan will go far, Duncan thought. __But first, I've gotta get out of his way. He smiled wryly, remembering his first commanding officer's admonition on the three leadership options available to an officer: Lead, follow, or get out of the way. _

_I guess it's my turn to step aside for the new generation of officers, Duncan admitted with a shrug. Meeting Hogan's eyes, he nodded grimly. "I'll see what I can do, Major." _

At Duncan's words, Hogan's hard expression softened. 

"Thank you, sir."

****

**Friday AUG 16 1940//1230hrs local**

**Operations Room **

**Bentley Priory, RAF Fighter Command HQs **

**Uxbridge, England**

****

Shortly after 1200 hours, they received the first reports of an incoming attack. His hands steepled before him, Hogan watched the proceedings from the observation deck. A level below him, an operations map was spread out on a huge table. Serious-faced WAAFs used long thin pointers to push models of planes, representing Luftwaffe and RAF squadrons, onto the map. Working with quiet purpose, they updated the locations of the squadrons as the reports came in.

The initial Luftwaffe attack formation split into three separate raids, heading to different airfields. As the RAF pilots' voices came over the intercom, Hogan leaned forward listening intently. Outwardly calm, he felt his adrenaline kick in. He was inside the cockpits with the pilots, his hands automatically mirroring their actions.

"This is Red Fox Leader! Bandits at two o'clock! Tallyho, lads!" Hogan wondered if it was the same Red Fox Leader that had come to his rescue back in May. A cold fist settled in his stomach as the war took on an unexpectedly personal twist. 

A few minutes later, another voice cried, "This is Red Fox Six! I'm hit! I'm hit! I can't hold her!"

"Red Fox Six! Bail out!"

Hogan grasped the metal sides of his chair, the whites of his knuckles the only indication of his tension. From below, he heard one of the WAAFs suddenly cry out, "Dickie, bail out!" A deadly silence hung in the Ops Room for what seemed an eternity.

"This is Red Fox Five! I see a parachute!"

"This is Red Fox Leader! Red Fox Five--follow him down and orbit until he's picked up!" 

"Roger, Red Fox Leader!"

A spontaneous cheer broke out from the Ops Room. Hogan covered his eyes in momentary relief. Then, searching the room below, his eyes fell on a tearfully smiling WAAF who handed her pointer over to another young woman who hugged her. Without another word, she quickly headed out of the Ops Room. As she passed directly below him, Hogan recognized her from earlier that morning.

_Section Officer Ice Princess...! Guess she knows the pilot. He remembered that she'd called him by name--'Dickie'--probably her sweetheart. Hogan felt suddenly very tired. One man (__Out of how many, he wondered?) had survived to fight another day. And here ****__he was again, sitting back while others fought and died._

Unable to tolerate his inactivity, Hogan strode out of the elegant headquarters building and hitched a ride back to London.

****

**Friday AUG 16 1940//1430hrs local**

**Trafalgar Square, London**

****

He was dropped off in London's West End, near Trafalgar Square. That was as far as the driver, a WAAF corporal, told Hogan she could take him when she agreed to give him a lift. 

"I have a delivery for the Cabinet War Rooms, so I'm in a bit of a rush."

"That's all right, Corporal," Hogan said climbing out of the staff car. He leaned in her window to thank her and caught a faint whiff of her perfume. Female drivers were definitely one of the few 'bennies' of the war. "I could use the walk. Thanks, Corporal...um...?" He gave her a questioning look and smiling she instantly provided the answer.

"Randall, sir. Cpl. Alice Randall. And may I add that anytime you need a ride into town, sir, be sure to look me up. It'd be a pleasure." She offered this last with a long, knowing look. 

"I'll be sure to do that, Cpl. Alice Randall," Hogan replied with a jaunty grin. Stepping back, he was about to head off when she stopped him.

"Say, Yank--!" Randall began. "Um, I do beg your pardon, sir. I meant no offense--!" She looked up him, her previously playful expression suddenly worried. 

"No offense taken, Cpl. Randall," Hogan said with quiet reassurance. As he spoke, he noticed a light smattering of freckles across her slightly upturned nose, which made her appear no more than a schoolgirl.

"Sir...? Do you know when you Yanks are finally going to--?"

"--Enter the war?" Hogan finished. At the pretty WAAF corporal's nod, Hogan shook his head. "I really wish I knew..." 

Nodding pleasantly, he stepped back while the staff car pulled away. Taking a long look around the major London intersection, Hogan noted the resolve on pedestrians' faces as they hurried about their daily business. They did not appear like a people who would be easily cowed into submission.

_Hitler sure picked the **wrong country to 'brass off'!**_

****

**Friday AUG 16 1940//1930hrs local**

**The Ram's Head Tavern, est. 1623**

**Covent Garden, London**

****

Hours later, Hogan found himself sitting at a highly polished bar, nursing a very warm pint of beer. He had discovered the Ram's Head Tavern his second week in country. Feeling a bit homesick, he had wandered the Covent Garden neighborhood immediately around his apartment building, nodding at people he met on the street and taking in the various shops and cafes.

He had explored the Garden's famous farmer's market, strolling from stall to stall, buying vegetables and other items that he had no idea how to prepare.

_They say a guy's best friend is his Mom, he thought ruefully. __Too bad mine never showed me what a pan was for. _

Eventually, Hogan's feet carried him to an ancient half-timbered building that was emitting a soft, warm glow from within. Soon, the blackout curtains would have to be pulled down, but for the moment, the place invited others to come in and cast aside their worldly troubles.

Since that day, Hogan tried to stop by the Ram's Head at least once a week for a pint. The regulars had even grown used to him. Perhaps he was not entirely one of them, but they accepted him well enough to nod on occasion and wave in recognition.

"Hey, Yank!"

"Good news from the States, eh?"

"Aye! Me hat's off to your President Roosevelt, mate!"

Hogan nodded and smiled in acknowledgement of the friendly greetings. He waved at the bartender and proprietor, Iain MacAlistar, who poured him his usual--a pint of warm ale. As was his habit, Hogan sat alone at the bar, nursing the bitter draught. While he did not care much for the taste, he cared even less to being cooped up alone in his tiny, airless flat.

Here, he could sit in companionable silence, accepted but not bothered by the other patrons. Taking a sip, he felt the tension around his back and shoulders finally begin to leave him. He thought about Duncan's words. The general did not promise anything, but at least, this time he had not said 'no.' 

_Maybe, just maybe... _

A warm feeling washed over him. Whatever happened, Hogan knew he would owe Duncan for agreeing to his request. As he reviewed the day's events in his head, he heard the neighborhood air raid warden call out over a bullhorn: "Blackout conditions! Hog's Head Tavern, this is the second time this week that I've been forced to warn you! The next time--!"

"**_Och...!" MacAlistar grumbled as he pulled down the shades and drew the heavy blackout curtains. "I heard you, y' thievin' Black Guard!" _**

Hogan quickly looked down into his beer, hiding his smile. It was no secret that there was no love lost between MacAlistar and Montgomery MacCollum, the air raid warden. Rivals since boyhood, they carried the feud into adulthood, when as young men they had courted the same girl. She chose MacCollum, and MacAlistar had never forgiven him.

Checking the time, Hogan thought about ordering something to eat, but decided against it. Paying his tab he got up to leave. As he did so, the air raid sirens suddenly began to wail across the city. Another bomb run.

The tavern patrons quickly left the building and began heading towards the local bomb shelter. Following them, Hogan looked up, studying the darkening skies with a critical eye. Soon, in the dimly lit horizon, he saw the telltale signs of vaporized slipstreams against the early evening sky. 

_The RAF's getting better, he thought. They were already scrambled and on the counterattack. Soon, Hogan heard the distinct thrumming of multiple engines. __Here they come! His experienced ear instantly identified the approaching enemy aircraft: Dornier-17s. __Sound like they're headed towards the dockyards. This was going to be a massive bomb run._

The dark skies suddenly lit with the eerie strobe-like flash-bang of anti-aircraft fire, followed by the steady ~**_Phoom--! Phoom--! Phoom--!~ of the firing batteries. Within minutes the air whistled with a familiar sound of an incoming shell. There was a sudden moment of silence instantly followed by an earsplitting explosion. _**

Hogan stumbled from the force of the shockwave, almost losing his footing. Recovering, he continued for the nearest air raid shelter. As he ran, Hogan caught the whiff of burning cordite mixed with other, more unpleasant smells. The next moment, he again heard the familiar whistle signaling another incoming bomb. This time, it was much louder. 

_It's gonna be **close! The air raid shelter was only a few meters away. About to close the last few yards, he was surprised by the sudden appearance of a panic-stricken woman running from the shelter.**_

"Tommy! Tommy!" she screamed, looking around frantically. Instantly, he sprinted towards her.

"**_Get down!" At that moment a violent explosion shook the street and the surrounding buildings. Hogan threw himself on top of the young woman, knocking them both onto the cobbled street, using his body to shield her from flying debris. After a few minutes, he chanced a look around._**

"That was too close for comfort," he muttered, helping her to her feet. Seeing that she was still distressed, he asked, "Miss, what is it?"

"My little boy. I don't know where he is. He was just with me a minute ago. Please! Can you help me?"

"What does he look like?" 

"He's only five...brown hair, green eyes...wearing a white shirt and dark, short trousers. Oh, please, help me!"

Hogan nodded quickly. "I will...but please, get back in the shelter!" As he spoke, he hurriedly urged her back inside. Once ensured that she was safe, Hogan started looking for the boy, calling out his name. "Tommy! Tommy!" His yells were almost drowned out by the explosions that resounded throughout the night. He ran up the rubble-strewn street and stopped midway.

"If I were a five-year-old boy, where would I go?" He spotted the remains of a recently bombed out building. Dark, spooky, mysterious--the skeletal remains had 'adventure' written all over them. "Yep...that's where **_I'd go, all right!" he muttered, running towards it. Stopping at the shattered entranceway, he peered into the shadows. A hastily tacked sign warned, _****'Keep Out! Danger!' **

"Oh, swell," he grumbled. Would a five-year-old be able read the warning, he wondered? That was when he heard the broken-hearted whimper.

"Mummy...Mummy!"

Hogan immediately began moving carefully towards the sound. "Tommy!" he called. "Tommy, where are you?" The soft sobbing instantly stilled. Hogan froze in place and listened for it. After a few seconds, the broken sound of a child's cry started again. This time, Hogan did not call out, afraid he might further frighten the boy.

Mindful of the instability of the structure, Hogan took slow, deliberate steps, testing the floor with his foot before placing his weight on it. A sudden gasp from the deep shadows alerted him. 

"Mummmmeee! Mummmmeee!"

Forgetting about safety, Hogan hurried to where the terrified boy sat huddled in the rubble. Bending down, he gently lifted the small child. "Hey, hey, hey..." he murmured reassuringly. "Everything's gonna be A-Okay, soldier. The cavalry's here."

"C-Cavalry--?" the boy asked, his interest piqued despite his fright. "Like the cowboys and Indians in the American cinema?"

"You betcha!" Hogan said with an emphatic nod. "And I should know, 'cause I'm as American as apple pie." Clinging to Hogan's neck, the boy smiled at him, his earlier fears forgotten.

"Are you a cowboy?" he asked in awe. Smiling, Hogan took off his hat and placed it on the boy's head.

"Well...you could say that, pardner," Hogan drawled in his best movie cowboy imitation. As he spoke, he started the careful trek back outside. "But instead of riding horses, I fly planes."

"Really? Spitfires? Like my Daddy?" Tommy asked excitedly. 

"Oh? Is your Daddy a pilot, too?" Hogan asked. Looking down, Tommy's shoulders shook slightly, and he placed his head on Hogan's shoulder, hugging him tightly about the neck. 

"He went away...It made Mummy and me awfully sad." By then, they were safely outside, and the All Clear sirens began to sound. Hogan paused momentarily and held the boy closely. _You're an idiot, Major! A real, four-star idiot!_

"I'm sorry, Tommy," he said and held him a little longer. Then setting him down, Hogan took Tommy's hand in his and began leading him back to the shelter. "Look, soldier, your Mommy is terribly worried about you. What do you say, we go find her?"

"Right-O!" Tommy held up a single thumb. Laughing, Hogan returned the gesture. A few minutes later, mother and son were reunited amidst tears and laughter.

"I don't know how to thank you!" Tommy's mother said. "Please...I don't even know your name."

"Hogan, ma'am...Maj. Hogan."

"Thank you, Major," she said, offering her hand. "How can we ever repay you?"

"Repay me?" he repeated. Smiling, Hogan crouched down to Tommy's eye level. Ruffling the boy's hair, he addressed him directly. "Soldier, there are two things you can do to repay me. Want to hear them?" Tommy nodded solemnly. "The first is that you will never play in one of these bombed-out buildings again. Understand?" 

"Uh-huh."

"Good...The second thing is that you must promise me to always listen to your Mommy." Hogan leaned in closer, and whispered conspiratorially, "Want to know a secret?" Tommy nodded eagerly. "A good soldier always listens to his Mommy, 'cause she'll never steer him wrong. Got that?"

Smiling broadly, Tommy gave Hogan an emphatic nod and threw his arms around his neck. Hogan hugged the boy for a long moment, and then releasing him, turned him around and handed him over to his mother. Taking Tommy's hand, she again smiled gratefully, and soundlessly mouthed, 'Thank you.' 

Smiling, Hogan started back toward his apartment.

****

**Saturday AUG 17 1940//0600hrs local**

**US Military Liaison Offices, **

Bentley Priory, RAF Fighter Command HQs 

**Uxbridge, England **

****

"You wanted to see me, General?" Hogan asked. Duncan looked up and returned Hogan's salute.

"Grab a cup of coffee and take a seat, Major." Duncan nodded first to the carafe sitting on a table along the wall, and then at the sole remaining chair in his office. Gratefully, Hogan poured himself a cup and sat down. Duncan was still immersed in his early morning reports.

"We lost eight pilots and 22 aircraft yesterday. At least fourteen of the pilots bailed out safely and have already been recovered. Enemy losses were considerably higher: 72 confirmed kills, 29 probable, and 41 damaged. In addition to the 72 confirmed kills by the RAF, three more planes were lost to anti-aircraft fire."

"Not bad," Hogan murmured. He sat back and took a careful sip of the general's coffee. Careful, because it had been his experience that the first sip of the general's morning coffee was usually a 'lulu.' Swallowing the hot, bitter liquid, he made a face and gasped, "The idiot who made **_this batch needs to face a firing squad, sir!" _**

"What's wrong with my coffee?" Duncan asked, feigning insult.

"Begging the general's pardon, sir...but I've had motor oil that tasted better!" Hold held up the cup and pointed at the contents as he complained, sloshing much of it on the floor.

"What if I told you that **_I'm the idiot who made the coffee this morning?" Duncan asked._**

Not missing a beat, Hogan gave Duncan his most ingenuous smile. "Then I'd say, sir, that you have a great future in aircraft maintenance. Why this stuff could keep our planes flying high through the Duration!" 

"Thanks...I'll keep that in mind," Duncan said wryly. He sat back for a moment and silently studied the younger man. Coming to a decision, he opened his desk drawer and took out a manila file folder. Tossing it on the desk, he said, "Your orders, Major." 

Gingerly, Hogan reached for the file, almost afraid that if he touched it, it would turn to dust. Reading through the orders carefully, savoring each acronym and obscure military phrase--little more than gobbledygook to the uninitiated--he heard Duncan somewhere still speaking to him...

"...And as of 0600 hours today, you are officially transferred to the Royal Air Force, assigned to 11 Group, located nearby in Uxbridge Field--"

"--Spitfires!" Hogan whispered, hardly able to believe his request had come through. And better yet, he was being assigned to a Spitfire squadron! "11 Group's assigned the defense of the London corridor." 

"And Southeast England," Duncan added, standing and slowly walking around his desk. He stopped in front of Hogan, pointedly looking at his watch. "As of 15 minutes ago, you are officially AWOL--absent without leave--Major...I mean, Squadron Leader."

****

End of Part 2


	3. Part 3

**Summary: Hogan reports to his new unit. **

**Disclaimer:**** Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!**

Copyright October 2002 

****

**Saturday AUG 17 1940//0700hrs local**

HQs, Hillingdon Air Base, Uxbridge Home of 11 Fighter Squadron, 11 Group 

****

Before the staff car came to a full stop, Hogan had the rear passenger door open. Before the driver had shut off the engine, Hogan was standing on the pavement. Additionally, as the veteran driver, a US Army Master Sergeant with several campaign ribbons on his right chest came around back, Hogan was already removing his bags from the trunk.

"Sir! I promised the general I'd get you here in one piece! And you jumping out of my vehicle while it's still moving--" 

"Come on, Murphy! I've had to jump out of **_planes before. How tough can it be to step out of a moving car?"_**

"I don't think it's quite the same thing, sir--the ground being a lot closer and all!" Realizing that his sarcasm was lost on Hogan, Murphy rolled his eyes and instead made a grab for the bags. "Here, sir, let me help you with those--!"

"Murph, how many times do I gotta tell you? I carry my own weight--**_and my own bags!" Reluctantly, MSgt. Murphy nodded. His yearlong association with Hogan had made him grow to respect the officer and know there was no point in arguing with him._**

"As you wish, sir," Murphy sighed, stepping back until he was sure Hogan had all his gear. "And, sir?" Hogan gave him a questioning look. "Give 'em Hell!" He snapped off a smart salute, executed a sharp about face, and opened the driver's side door. About to climb in, he paused, and looking over at Hogan grinned and gave him a 'thumbs up.'

Smiling, Hogan returned the gesture, and then watched until the staff car disappeared down the long flight line. Taking a deep breath, he took a moment to look around his new home. Hillingdon Air Base was large by RAF standards and officially listed as being 'co-located' with HQs RAF Fighter Command in Uxbridge. The big brass used it when they were shuttled in and out of the immediate area. 

Thankfully, it was actually a good six-kilometer walk between 11 Fighter Squadron and Hogan's old office in Bentley Priory. "My 'old office,'" he repeated ruefully. _I've been gone a whole hour and I'm already thinking of my liaison job in the past tense. _

A sign in front of the building stated: HQs, Hillingdon Air Base, Uxbridge Home of 11 Fighter Squadron, 11 Group 

Standing in front of the headquarters building, Hogan thought back to what he saw as they had driven into Hillingdon Air Base through the southeast gate. They had passed several outbuildings, including four maintenance hangars and several Quonset huts on the way--officer and 'other ranks' living quarters, a fire station, small hospital, rec hall, mess hall, etc.  

Dominating the airfield like a giant sentry, the requisite, 25-foot control tower stood overlooking a large parade field, which separated the buildings from the runway. 

But Hogan was no longer paying attention to his surroundings, because his eyes had been drawn to something much more intriguing. On the parade field, lined up in perfect military precision stood the last hope of Great Britain--a squadron of Submarine Spitfires. Grinning suddenly, he murmured, "**_My Spitfires!"_**

Hogan felt a thrill shoot through him. Momentarily forgetting that he was supposed to report to the base commander, he instead dropped his bags, and crossed over to where the Spitfires waited for the next squadron scramble.

Unable to help himself, he lovingly ran his hand along the fuselage as he walked around and under the plane. He inspected the built-in, wing-mounted gun ports--four Browning .303mm machineguns that gave the Spitfire its exceptional killing power. Furthermore, the Merlin IV engine, combined with the plane's unique, wider wing design made the Spitfire one of the fastest, most highly maneuverable fighters in the air.

He climbed onto the starboard wing, mindful of where he stepped, and opened the canopy. Expertly, he did a cursory check of the instrumentation. Looking around the airfield, he realized that he was the lone figure out this early in the morning and an impish glint suddenly flashed across his dark eyes. 

On impulse, he climbed into the cockpit, trying to get a feel for it. Like a little boy with a new toy, he inspected the instruments, while running his hand lovingly along the joystick, enjoying its natural feel against his palm.

"Yeah, baby...just how I like it..." 

A discreet cough brought him back. Hogan turned guiltily at the sound. A tall, good-looking man leaned casually on the starboard wing, gazing up at him. About Hogan's age and with a military bearing, he was dressed casually in a white turtleneck sweater and uniform trousers. He puffed on a pipe and his dark hair ruffled slightly in the early morning breeze.

Embarrassed at being caught, Hogan sheepishly climbed down. "Sorry 'bout that, Mac. This your plane?" 

"Actually, Major...Hogan, is it...?" Mildly surprised that the stranger knew whom he was, Hogan merely nodded. "I believe it's yours." The other man smiled and held out his hand. "I'm Wing Commander James Roberts--the base commander." He gave a broad wave that took in the their surroundings. "Just about everything you see here is my responsibility. Including these." He indicated the Spitfires. "And--for better or worse, Major--**_yours as well." _**

Roberts turned and headed back towards the headquarters building. As he walked, he called cheerily over his shoulder, "Oh, by the way...welcome aboard!" 

"Thanks," Hogan muttered.

A large banner greeted Hogan as he stepped through the door leading into his new home: **_'Kill or Be Killed_**!' Making no comment, he instead gave Roberts an askance look of appraisal and followed him through the outer office where a lone WAAF was on duty. She quickly looked up from her typewriter as they entered and addressed Roberts.

"Sir, Group Captain Gordon called to confirm your appointment for this afternoon." 

"Thank you, Fitz," Roberts said, without breaking stride. As they passed her, Hogan gave her a friendly nod and smile. She nodded in return and dutifully went back to her typing. From farther down the hall, Hogan heard the steady clacking of typewriters and a phone ringing in another office. _Just the dull, daily routine of an army at war, he mused._

****

As soon as the two senior officers moved on, Aircraftswoman 1st Class Mary Fitzpatrick grabbed her telephone and dialed. Down the hall, the phone was picked up on the second ring by her best chum, Aircraftswoman 2nd Class Edith Simmons.

"He's here!" Fitzpatrick whispered excitedly before the other had a chance to speak. "The Yank! And Edith...he's just like Alice described him--absolutely **_dreamy!" _**

In the other office, Simmons let out a squeak and promptly covered her mouth, looking around nervously to see if her supervisor might be watching. All clear_ for now. "Oh, Fitz, ****__do tell me everything--!" She suddenly caught sight of her immediate superior. "Uh-oh. Gotta go."_

"The dragon lady?" Fitzgerald asked sympathetically.

"--Is on an intercept vector even as we speak."

"Oh, pooh! I'll fill you in at lunch. How's that?"

"Jolly good," Simmons replied. "See you then." 

Smiling, Fitzpatrick slowly hung up the phone and sat back. She closed her eyes, bringing up the image of the American officer's dark good looks in her mind. She recalled the flash of dimples when he smiled at her.

"Absolutely dreamy," she murmured with an exaggerated sigh.

****

"Tea?" Roberts asked. He and Hogan were in his small, cluttered office. 

"No, thanks," Hogan said not quite hiding a shudder. "I'm afraid that I'm not much of a tea drinker." Roberts smiled slightly at Hogan's reaction.

"Of course. You Yanks prefer coffee, I believe," he said. Hogan nodded. "I'm afraid that coffee is in rather short supply at the moment. The war, you know."

"That's all right, sir. I had a cup this morning already."

Hogan sat upright on a straight-backed chair, and while he waited for Roberts to take a seat, studied his surroundings. One entire wall was covered with a map of 11 Group's area of operations. Several pins marked the locations of the other airfields and the squadrons assigned to the Group. So far that summer, 11 Group had faced most of the raids from across the English Channel, augmented largely by elements from 12 Group immediately to the north. 

No. 11 Squadron had been on continuous standby for several weeks, with its latest skirmish just the day before. They had lost three planes and one pilot. The other two pilots had bailed successfully. Roberts had asked for and received three replacement planes and one replacement pilot--Hogan.

"Erickson, poor chap, was 11 Squadron Leader and my executive officer," Roberts said as he sat down. "You'll be replacing him. Eric was a good man...recently engaged. **_Blasted war!" Roberts slammed an open palm on his desk in sudden agitation. Sitting back, he covered his inner tumult by taking a sip from his tea. Finally, regaining control, he shook his head. _**

"I'll be perfectly honest with you, Major. When I received your orders this morning, I thought someone in HQ was playing a bad joke. You're expected to replace one of the best squadron leaders in 11 Group." He set his empty teacup aside, reached for his pipe, and lit it. Taking several long puffs, he gave Hogan a hard measuring look.

"You have an impressive record, Maj. Hogan--graduated third in your flight training school, served as a flight instructor for three years..." He paused reading over the file before him. "It even shows here that you're qualified on Spitfires **_and Hurricanes--and a few other aircraft--but you have no combat experience. _**

"Please don't take this wrong...but I simply don't need a squadron leader who's never seen combat. I need someone that I can entrust the lives of my men to, especially if anything happens to me. Also, Erickson was well-liked and respected by the men...I'm afraid that--" He stopped, unsure of how to continue.

"Look, sir," Hogan began. "I know that I'm an outsider and that it may take the men a little longer to fully accept me. I don't intend on trying to replace Erickson or anyone else in the hearts of the men. I'm here to do my job, and you have my word that I'll always give you 110 percent!"

"And I'll expect nothing less from you!" Roberts snapped. Both men glared at each other. Roberts stood suddenly and moved over to the lone window in his office. It overlooked the parade field and the squadron's twelve fighters.

Relenting, Roberts spoke quietly. "11 Squadron has other problems, Hogan. Poor morale, I'm afraid. They've suffered most of the Group's losses these past few weeks. I've overheard some of the officers while they're just sitting around talking. Some are beginning to believe that the squadron is somehow jinxed--a real hard-luck outfit or something--"

"Sir, if you'll excuse me," Hogan interrupted. "But I think that that's a load of bunk! You know as well as I that there's no such thing as a jinx! **_Or a hard-luck outfit! We make our own luck--through training and discipline. _****_And in every man doing his job."_**

Roberts nodded. "I agree with you, of course. But you'll have a tough, uphill battle to bring them out of the black hole that they've allowed themselves to sink into." Sighing, Roberts shook his head. 

"And Eric...he shouldn't have been leading the squadron yesterday. He hadn't stood down for almost 48 hours. I'd ordered him to bed, when we received the bloody 'Squadron Scramble' alert." Roberts stared out the window for a few minutes without speaking, puffing quietly on his pipe. Hogan waited, not breaking the silence.

"Eric **_was a good officer," Roberts repeated, almost to himself. "But he felt too much." He turned and faced Hogan. "Eric couldn't bear to send men to their deaths any longer. So he went in their stead. I spoke with the Flight Surgeon and was determined to ground him for good, but Eric convinced me that all he needed was a few days rest and relaxation. Like a fool, I agreed. That was about four weeks ago. When he came back, everything seemed fine. He was properly rotating his pilots and taking his fair turn. And then he lost two men..."_**

Roberts shook his head. "I should have grounded him when I had the bloody chance." Sighing, he turned back to the window and the view of the flight line. "Major, you're right when you say you're an outsider--and on top of that, you're a bloody Yank to boot." He gave a short laugh. "No offense meant."

"No offense taken, sir," Hogan said with an easy grin. "Of course, I'm from Connecticut--which makes me a true-blue Yankee. I wouldn't call a fella from south of the Mason-Dixon line a Yank, if I were you."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," Roberts said, also grinning. The next moment, he grew thoughtful. "It could be to your advantage...being an outsider, I mean. The squadron has been coddled so long that maybe what those men **_need is a good swift kick in the pants."_**

"And maybe something or some**_one to concentrate on instead of feeling sorry for themselves?" Hogan asked. He looked speculatively at Roberts. _**

Feeling more relaxed than either had when they had entered Roberts' office, the men smiled across at each other. "Now, Major--or rather, I should say, 'Squadron Leader'--why don't we get you situated? First off, let's see about getting you into a proper uniform."

****

By late morning, Hogan's US Army uniform had been replaced by RAF blue. He had drawn several other items from the quartermaster, to include a weapon and shoulder holster. He carefully laid out the rest of the gear on his bunk: gas mask, Mae West jacket, parachute, sheepskin-lined flying boots, flight-suit (which he knew most pilots never bothered to wear), and fleece-lined leather jacket. 

As Roberts' executive officer, Hogan was entitled to private quarters for which he was thankful. He looked around the tiny cubicle. It was not much to look at, but it would be home for the next few months or so--_Depending. He decided not to dwell on the 'depending' part. _

Catching sight of a family portrait on his small desk, he paused for a moment. It was taken a few months prior to his being assigned to England and his brother Ryan, a Navy pilot, to the Pacific Fleet. Both men were in their respective uniforms, standing behind their proud parents. 

Studying the photo, Hogan thought guiltily of his parents and the effect his decision would have on them. He needed to write them and let them know. He had not told them earlier of his efforts to transfer to the RAF, because he did not wish to worry them needlessly. But now they had to be told. A Spitfire pilot's lifespan was sometimes measured in hours, if not minutes.

_It's not like they haven't been expecting it, though. Even Ryan's talked about joining the Flying Tigers. _

Casting off the sudden gloom that threatened to engulf his excitement, Hogan quickly began to put away his gear. He hung up his extra uniforms in a metal wall locker and neatly stowed the rest of his equipment in a footlocker. He next made up his bunk with West Point precision. On impulse, he took out a coin from his pocket and tossed it on the bunk. It bounced several times before finally coming to a rest.

"Still got it," he said with a grin. A sudden speculative look came over him. Earlier, he had walked through the squadron's officer quarters, which had been unoccupied at the time. On impulse, he had decided upon an impromptu inspection.

To describe the conditions under which the junior officers were living as 'sloppy' would be an understatement. Disgraceful was closer to the mark. The single bunks were largely unmade, or else were made up haphazardly. A noisome odor warned him that most of the sheets and blankets had not been changed in weeks. 

The floors were filthy and littered with several articles of clothing and other personal effects. The windows almost did not need blackout curtains because they were practically opaque from grime. Naturally, there had been a layer of dust on every surface he had dared touch.

He did not even want to think about the reeking odors that had come from the direction of the latrine area.

Checking his watch, Hogan was surprised to see that it was almost noon; abruptly, his stomach reminded him that he had not stopped for breakfast before reporting to the squadron. Taking one final look around his quarters, he nodded in satisfaction.

"I think I know exactly where I'm going to start," he muttered and headed for the Officers' Mess.

****

**Saturday AUG 17 1940//1300hrs local**

Dispersal Hut, 11 Fighter Squadron 

**Hillingdon Air Base, Uxbridge **

****

Hogan stood to the side, only half-listening to Roberts. Instead, he studied the faces of the officers and crew of 11 Squadron. If Hogan had believed the officers' living quarters to be in shambles, then the officers themselves were but a reflection. Not much of a spit and polish man himself, Hogan nevertheless believed that discipline began with the individual.

Hogan knew well enough that a poor outward appearance did not necessarily reflect on job performance. On the other hand, if a man were possibly suffering from low morale--as Roberts stated was the case with 11 Squadron--then there was always the danger that in time, the individual might begin to adopt some of the same slovenly attitude towards the job. 

Before long, such carelessness might get him or his men killed...

"...And I know that you'll give your new Squadron Leader the same cooperation that you gave Squadron Leader Erickson. Squadron Leader Hogan--?" Hogan snapped to attention and quick-timed towards Roberts. Standing before the senior officer, he snapped a sharp salute. Roberts returned it, and then moved off towards his office. Hogan, who had his back to the squadron formation, took one step forward and executed an about face.

"At ease--I mean, 'Stand easy,'" he said with a self-deprecating grin. "Sorry, fellas...I'll get the commands down one of these days. Hopefully before the war's over." His comments were met with brief, uneasy laughter and a few doubtful looks. RAF oral commands were slightly different from that of the US Army. It was as good a way as any to break the ice.

"First, I'd like to say how proud I am to be here and in this uniform. In the past few months, I've been highly impressed by all the pilots and crews that it's been my privilege to accompany as a neutral observer. However, I was beginning to feel a little bit like a paying customer at the Roman Coliseum--" He received a few snickers at this from the enlisted men, or 'other ranks' as they were called. "--So, I requested a transfer to the RAF, and well, here I am. I know that you will give me your full cooperation, and I assure you that you'll get the same from me."

He pulled out a small notebook from his breast pocket. He'd already memorized the names and numbers, but nevertheless made a show of checking it over carefully.

"Flight Lieutenants Debney and Lee--front and center!" Two young men dressed in rather hit-or-miss pretexts of a uniform stepped forward reluctantly. Catching sight of a pink scarf around Lee's neck, Hogan's eyebrow went up, but he did not comment. 

"Flight Sergeant Muldoon!" he called. A craggy-faced NCO dressed in clean coveralls and a Glengarry cap came forward. The Glengarry was the first sign of headgear Hogan had spotted. In fact, he noted that the other ranks were dressed in proper uniforms and appeared more like professional soldiers than any of his officers. "The rest of you, smoke 'em if you've got 'em."

Jerking his head to the side, he called the three men into a huddle.

****

Pilot Officers Stephens and Halliday watched their new flight leader, curious as to what he was discussing with Flight Lieutenants Debney and Lee. They could not tell much from Hogan's expression, but Debney and Lee both looked like they had just bitten into a sour lemon. The next instant, the section leaders snapped a salute and ran in the direction of their quarters.

"What d'you suppose that's all about, Dickie?" Stephens asked. 

Halliday shrugged, looking completely uninterested in the proceedings. Sighing, he sat down on the soft, grassy field and moments later, leaned back on his elbows oblivious to whatever his new flight leader was up to.

"Who cares?" he muttered. He lit a cigarette and smoked quietly for a few moments. He turned his upper body slightly away from Stephens so that his friend could not see that his hands were shaking. "I still can't believe Eric bought it." _And that I almost did, too. _

In his mind, Halliday relived those heart-stopping seconds in the cockpit: The controls shot; acrid smoke in his eyes, mouth and nose; the Spitfire in a death spiral; all the while knowing that he was going to crash and that there was nothing he could do about it. 

The nightmarish struggle to open the canopy haunted him, as did the terrifying, out-of-control freefall, tumbling head over heels. When his hand had at last closed around the ripcord, he had not believed he was safe until he saw the parachute billowing overhead.

"...And can you believe we've got a bloody Yank for a flight leader?" Stephens was asking. "The group commander must hate us or something."

"Right-o, Steve," Halliday said sarcastically. "I can just see it--each morning when he wakes up, Air Vice-Marshal Park says to himself, 'Now what do you suppose I can do today to muck up that hated 11 Squadron?'"   

"You know what I mean--!" Stephens protested. However, before Halliday could answer, they saw that Flight Lieutenants Debney and Lee had returned at the double, each in full uniform. And Stephen noted that Lee's ever-present pink scarf was gone. Debney and Lee came to a stop at attention, and waited for Hogan, who was busy with Flight Sergeant Muldoon

"Hello? Now what--?" Halliday muttered, standing slowly. Stephens shook his head. 

"Dickie, I don't exactly know what's going on," Stephens murmured, "but I think I hate it already."

****

Two hours later, Stephens **_knew he hated it. And from the muttered grumblings coming from the other junior officers, he was not alone. _**

"A bloody barracks inspection!" Stephens exclaimed, waving the wet mop he was holding for emphasis. It slopped water all over Pilot Officer Rhys-Michaels.

"Hey! Watch that thing, mate! This is my last clean uniform!"

"Oh, bugger off, RM!" Stephens growled dismissively and continued his rant. "I mean...we're on fifteen-and-fifteen, and what's the first thing he does when he takes over the squadron? He orders a **_barracks inspection!" Some of the others mumbled in agreement. They had been on fifteen-minute standby for fifteen hours a day, seven days a week since the first wave of German dive-bombers had swept over the English Channel in June. _**

"And now this Yank--who hasn't flown even one bleeding combat hour--is telling us that in order to win the war, we have to make these blasted floors gleam!"

"Well, they are rather filthy," Rhys-Michaels said reasonably. The others groaned and then proceeded to pelt him with their wet sponges. Yelping, the hapless pilot officer managed to duck into the latrine. "I say there--! That's not very sporting of you chaps..." His voice died out as he shut the door behind himself.

"Stephens! Aren't you done mopping, yet?" At Flight Lieutenant Debney's angry tone, Stephens dunked the mophead into the water bucket and sloshed it rebelliously. 

"Oh, bloody hell, Deb!" Stephens protested. "This is ridiculous--!" 

"On the double, Pilot Officer!" Debney snapped. "Squadron Leader Hogan will be inspecting soon!" Not waiting for a reply, he whirled round and stepped out the door again.

Disgusted, Stephens crossed his arms and balanced them on top of the mop handle, addressing the barracks in general. "I reckon ol' Goering will just shiver in his boots when he hears about His Majesty's latest secret weapon." With a dramatic flair, he leaned the mop handle against one of the double bunks, and taking a step back, came to attention and snapped off a sharp salute. "Sir! Pilot Officer Stephens reporting for duty! We also serve who stand and mop--**_Sir!"_**

"I'm happy you feel that way, Stephens, 'cause I have a feeling that you and that mop are gonna become real close pals in the next few weeks or so."

Everyone froze in place. Then as one, they all turned and faced the dark, smiling eyes of their new flight leader.

Stephens swallowed nervously. _I don't think I like the looks of that smile._

****

Thirty minutes later, Stephens (as well as the other officers of 11 Squadron) definitely knew that he did not like his new squadron leader's smile. 

"...And each morning immediately following roll call, you will each fall out with your respective ground crew and personally pull maintenance checks on your assigned planes. Flight Sergeant Muldoon will be in charge of the operation. Whatever **_he says _****_goes! Are there any questions?"_**

"Yes, sir! I have a question." Halliday stepped forward. He calmly withstood Hogan's glare.

"Go on...Pilot Officer Halliday isn't it?"

"What is this all about, sir? What's with all the spit and polish? Number 11 Squadron's been on the frontlines since June. I think we know something about fighting and flying without having to resort to--" He stopped suddenly, unsure of the amused twinkle that flitted across Hogan's eyes.

"Go on, Halliday...without having to resort to **_what?" Hogan took a step forward. "Without having to resort to clean sheets and blankets? Or how about clean latrines? Do you happen to have some kind of an aversion to personal hygiene?"_**

Halliday shook his head. "No, of course, not, sir. It's just that--" He paused uncomfortably.

"--It's just that I could smell the officers' quarters long before I saw them," Hogan said quietly. "Sorry, fellas, but I guess Mr. Churchill forgot to outfit this place with maid service. From here on, your quarters will be maintained in a high state of readiness. Furthermore, every officer will be expected to stand a morning roll call formation at 0600 hours. At that time, you're mine! So take care of whatever personal business you need to do prior to that."

"What if we have a squadron scramble?" Rhys-Michaels asked timidly.

"Then you'll be airborne in two minutes flat or I'll know the reason why!"

"Two minutes?" Stephens asked.

"That's standard operating procedure, gentlemen," Hogan said. Looking each officer squarely in the face, he added, "I've read the squadron reports going back a five weeks. In the last six scrambles, B Flight has taken well over five minutes to be completely airborne, and A Flight six minutes. I don't need to tell you that every minute it takes you to be wheels up costs you a thousand feet in altitude."

"That's all well and good, sir," another man spoke up. Halliday saw that it was 'Tommy' Thompkins, the quietest man in the squadron. "But what does all that have to do with our standing formations and pulling daily maintenance on the planes. The ground crews are all fantastic at their jobs. What do they need **_us for? We'll only be in the way."_**

"Good question, Thompkins," Hogan replied. "Your job is going to be to learn everything you can about your plane. And this isn't just me bringing heat--a pilot who doesn't know how to maintain his own aircraft is a fool." His cold gaze dared them to challenge him. The moment passed and his hard look was replaced by mild amusement, giving him a surprisingly boyish look. 

"I think that I can promise you a few changes around here in the next few days," he said. "We're on a moving train that's picking up speed. So far the Jerries have concentrated their attacks to airfields and other outlying areas. It won't be long before they begin to concentrate on large, populated cities--like London--in order to break the backs of all you Brits.

"The difference between being wheels up in two minutes as opposed to six could mean whether or not a London neighborhood--maybe even the one you grew up in--survives another day." The young pilot officers exchanged reluctant nods.

"Flight Lieutenant Debney is forthwith my exec and A Flight leader. Flight Lieutenant Lee is the squadron training officer and B Flight leader. Flight Sergeant Muldoon is Squadron Sergeant Major." He paused in an effort to give the men a chance to digest the information as well as to try to gauge their reaction. "You will give these men your full cooperation. Are there any questions?" No one spoke. "Very well. Flight Leaders take charge. Dismissed." 

As the men broke into two smaller groups, Hogan stopped Muldoon. "Flight Sergeant?" Muldoon turned. "My plane. Is it ready for a check flight?"

"Aye, sir. As ready as can be expected. She's a rebuilt model--and not one of those straight off the assembly line flying bucket of bolts!" Hogan grinned at Muldoon's words. The Flight Sergeant had little respect for the Spitfire mass production effort. Like it as not, most new planes had so many unique maintenance problems that it made them rather problematic to fly.

"How about the other two new planes? For Pilot Officers Halliday and Stephens? Are they also ready for a check flight?"

"Aye, sir...that they are."

"Good! Have them fueled and ready on the flight line within the next half hour. I'll go have a word with the boss and file a flight plan."

"Very good, sir!" Muldoon saluted and marched off.

****

**Saturday AUG 17 1940//1600hrs local**

Flight Line, 11 Fighter Squadron 

**Hillingdon Air Base, Uxbridge **

****

Making his final check, Hogan gave Muldoon a thumbs up. Muldoon nodded and ducked under the plane's fuselage to remove the wheel chocks. As soon as the flight crew was clear, Hogan began to taxi down the airfield. Looking left and right, he saw that Halliday and Stephens were taxiing alongside him. Moments later, they were airborne.

Hogan took the first few minutes to simply enjoy being back in the pilot's seat. _Like riding a bicycle, he thought. Checking his altimeter, he saw that they were at their designated altitude._

"This is Red Fox Leader. 10 Angels. Level off. FFI on. Acknowledge." Hogan spoke in short, terse phrases, announcing that the flight had reached fifteen thousand feet altitude and that they should level off, turn on their 'Friend or Foe Identifier' signal, and acknowledge receipt of the information.

"This is Red Fox two," Halliday said. "10 Angels--acknowledged."

"This is Red Fox three," Stephens chimed. "10 Angels--acknowledged."

"This is Red Fox Leader. Let's see what these babies got--!" With an exuberance he had not felt since flight school, Hogan began putting the planes through their paces. In unison and singly, he and the other two pilots executed precision rolls, steep dives, and power climbs. 

When a lone Lancaster flew within range of their guns, they practiced an attack approach. After they 'killed' it, Hogan tipped his wings at the Lancaster crew. As he flew off, he caught sight of their nonverbal response at being used for target practice. 

"Ah, the international sign of friendship," he murmured. Grinning, Hogan was about to call it a day, when Roberts' voice suddenly came on the air.

"Red Fox Leader, this is Control. Over."

"Control, this is Red Fox Leader."

"Red Fox Leader, bandits at 20 Angels. Vector 2-2-0. Acknowledge."

"This is Red Fox Leader. Acknowledged...Okay, fellas, you heard the man.  **_Tallyho_**!" As if they had been flying together for ages, instead of a few hours, the three planes pealed off in the direction given, while climbing to the new altitude.  

"This is Red Fox Two! Bandits at nine o'clock!" Halliday shouted excitedly. Hogan immediately saw them--three Junker-87s, escorted by two Messerschmitts!

"I seem them," he said calmly. "Tallyho, boys. Let's show 'em we don't like party crashers!"

The three Spitfires immediately banked right and split up. "Okay, fellas...the 109s are yours. Keep 'em off my back while I take care of the 87s!"

"Right-o!" Stephens and Halliday acknowledged almost simultaneously. Out of the corner of his eyes, Hogan briefly saw the other two Spitfires disappear into the sun. The next moment, the sky seemed to have been emptied of everything except him and the three German bombers. Climbing, Hogan looped and turned until he was directly behind and above the three planes.

The next second, the sky around him was filled with tracer rounds zipping past him. Instinctively, he went into a rolling dive, successfully evading the deadly fusillade. As he brought the fighter's nose back up, he saw that the three bombers still maintained their group formation, flying steadily on course. They were relying on their crew gunners and fighter escort for protection. Hogan grinned ferally as a half-formed idea suddenly flashed in his head.

"Okay, guys, you crashed my party...let me crash yours!" As he uttered these words, Hogan threw his plane into a crash dive--angled directly at the tight bomber formation. Ignoring the relentless onslaught of the enemy planes' combined firepower, Hogan kept his eyes on the cockpit of the center plane, diving straight towards it. Abruptly, the bombers seemed to go into a panic, and the three planes broke off in three different directions. Hogan went after the lead bomber.

Over his headset, Hogan could hear Halliday and Stephens as they fought a long aerial dogfight with their respective Me-109s. He saw Red Fox Two fire a sustained burst at his target, but the 109 executed a series of complicated maneuvers and evaded safely.

Even as he aligned his sights, Hogan kept a part of his concentration on what his men were doing. "This is Red Fox Leader. Don't waste your ammo! Fire only short bursts!"  

As if to emphasize his point, Hogan fired off three two-second bursts. A long, black stream of oily smoke appeared suddenly from the portside wing of the Junkers-87. He fired two additional bursts, and the plane slowly began listing to port. One more salvo and the plane erupted into flames. Hogan didn't see any parachutes.

Not waiting to see it hit the ground, he went in search of the other two bombers.

"This is Red Fox Leader. Status report." As he spoke, Hogan banked his Spitfire until he had the second Junkers-87 in his sights. 

"This is Red Fox Two. Running low on ammo and fuel." Rolling to avoid a volley of red-hot tracers, Hogan calmly sighted and fired twice. To his surprise, the 87 immediately started trailing smoke.

"This is Red Fox Three. Same here." Parachutes started appearing from the doomed plane as it fell towards its death several thousand feet below. Hogan searched for the third bomber.

"Then I suggest you eliminate your targets ASAP--**_before you run out of either!" Spotting the last Junkers in a cloudbank, Hogan dove after it. "These bandits are not--repeat--_****_not going to reach their objective! Do you copy?"_**

"Roger, I copy," Stephens and Halliday said, their voices somewhat subdued.

"Red Fox Leader out!" Checking his own ammo and fuel status, Hogan saw that he was just about out, too. He had just enough ammo for one more pass. _So, I've gotta make this good! Feeling the tension along his shoulder blades growing, Hogan took a deep breath and released it slowly._

"Tallyho! Scratch one Me-109!" Stephens called out. "Get a move on, Red Fox Two! We'll be late for supper!"

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twitch!" Halliday retorted. "I've got 'im where I want 'im!"

"Yes...I can see that. Although being in **_front of your target is a unique way to 'eliminate' it, wot?"_**

"Knockoff the chatter!" Hogan snapped. "Red Fox Three, what's your status?"

"Out of ammo...fuel critical."

"Then get your butt back to base! You don't need me to tell you that!"

"Roger. Red Fox Three out!" Stephens answered in quick staccato tones.

"Red Fox Two, what's **_your status?" _**

"I'm a little busy at the moment. Red Fox Two out!"

Grimacing at the younger flyers' irreverent behavior in the air, Hogan made a mental note to thoroughly chew them out when they got back to base. _If we get back to base._

Cruising just above the cloud cover, his keen eyes searched for the last bomber, but saw no sign of it. Had it somehow given him the slip? About to dive below the clouds, Hogan's patience was suddenly rewarded--the bomber emerged from cover at just that moment.

"This is Red Fox Two! Scratch one more Messerschmitt! D'you need help with that 87?" 

"**_Negative! Head back to base!" Hogan shouted, only half-listening. He lined the bomber in his crosshairs and fired the last of his ammo. Instantly, the bomber exploded in a fireball! Astounded, Hogan could only watch in awe as the enemy plane literally disintegrated before him. "Bulls eye," he whispered. _**

"Bloody hell...you must've hit the bomb bay," Halliday said, stunned.

Hogan waited just long enough to ensure that there would be no parachutes from this plane either. Banking his Spitfire, he called out, "This is Red Fox Leader. Let's head home."

****

End of Part 3


End file.
